


Won't Let You Choke

by mwestbelle



Category: Bandom, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mob, Forbidden, Gangsters, Italian Mafia, M/M, Organized Crime, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-14
Updated: 2012-07-14
Packaged: 2017-11-09 23:13:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/459538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mwestbelle/pseuds/mwestbelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for no_tags 2012 prompt - "Frank/Ray - mafia"</p><p>In which Frank is a low-level mobster and Ray is part of an enemy gang.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Won't Let You Choke

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from Mumford & Son's "The Cave." Thanks to anoneknewmoose for a lightning fast beta! (Originally posted on LJ in Feb 2012)

Frank knows better than to fuck with the Family. The Ieros have never been powerful, no names on the news or Most Wanted lists, but they’ve always been _there_. There to take a dozen little falls, going down for extortion, illegal gambling, loansharking, assault, all the little things that keep an organization running. Frank did a few years for arson when he was younger; he was up on a big racketeering charge, but one of the big guys got hit in that one too, so he ended up with a good lawyer. He’s paid his dues, earned his scars, and he knows that none of it even compares to what happens to people who think they can outsmart the Mob.

But some stupid, stupid part of him is convinced that Ray is worth it.

“You just don’t get it. You don’t…it’s impossible.” Gerard is in a chatty mood again, and normally, Frank is happy to listen to him babble. Well, normally Frank is happy to zone out while he talks, enjoying the ambient noise while he plays pool or poker or whatever the fuck they’re up to. But he’s got _plans_ tonight, and the hours are ticking away. There’s no way for him to say _hey, Gee, I was hoping to go fuck one of our enemies, maybe drink some wine and get romantic, you mind if I fuck off?_ so he runs his thumb along the rim of his glass.

“I get it,” Mikey says evenly. “I just don’t give a fuck.”

Mikey doesn’t look like an enforcer, but he gets a look in his eye that makes even Frank’s dick go limp, and he’s known the Ways since elementary school. The Ways are an old family, like the Ieros, though a little higher up on the food chain. They’re no big shakes, but their uncle was an especially beloved lieutenant and the boss has a soft spot for them. Soft enough spot that it was the fingers on his left hand that got broken when he got caught skimming—his drawing hand wasn’t touched. Gee cleaned up his act, didn’t make the boss follow through on his threat to move on to the second, and now he mostly works as Mikey’s charm man. He’s friendly, got an easy smile and a laugh that makes you want to laugh along with him. If you don’t, that’s when Mikey steps up.

“Frankie, you listening to this guy?” Frank looks up from his beer to see Gerard giving him a plaintive stare.

“Yeah, sure I am.” Frank has no idea what they’re talking about, but his fingers are practically twitching. “Look, I got an early morning tomorrow.”

“Seriously? God, Frank, you sound like Mama.”

“Hey, some of us have actual jobs.” Frank flips them both off and pushes back from the table, grabbing his jacket from the back of the chair. “We can’t all make a full-time living being scary.”

“I think you could, if you really set your mind to it.” Gerard’s eyes are wide and earnest, and there’s always that split second when Frank can’t quite tell if he’s being made fun of. “You’re a scary motherfucker, I mean, how many people are scared of Chihuahuas? So fucking many.”

“Cocksucker.” Frank cuffs the back of Gerard’s head, but he just laughs while Mikey snickers into his drink. “Enjoy each other’s company, losers. You deserve it.”

“Not my fault Mikey’s the only one cool enough to hang with me.” Gerard grins and waves at Frank. Frank shrugs on his jacket and waves back, pulling his pack out of his pocket once he gets outside. With a cigarette between his teeth, he feels calmer, even though it’s not cold enough out for him to have these goosebumps on his arms.

His car is parked at the corner, and he walks slowly, making sure the Ways aren’t going to bust out of the bar and follow him. Not that they would take him out; that’s not their job, and he’s pretty sure neither of them is _that_ good, to keep a straight face all night when they know he’s a target. He hopes they aren’t, at least. But he doesn’t need anything suspicious, and if he says he’s going home, he wants them to vouch that he did. The door to the bar opens, but it’s just one of the regulars coming out for a smoke.

Frank gets into his car and drives towards his house for a couple blocks, just to make it realistic. If someone’s following him, he’s already fucked, but it makes him feel better to do it this way. The sense of security his precautions give him might be false; in his book, it’s better than nothing.

He parks two blocks down and around the corner from Ray’s building and tugs his hood up before he gets out of the car. No one around here should recognize him, but the last thing he needs is for one of Ray’s _brothers_ to know his face next time they scuffle. He walks fast, as little time on the street as possible, into the building and up the stairs to the second floor. Ray lives in 113, and Frank knocks just once. He knows Ray is waiting.

Footsteps, the familiar pause of peering through the peephole, and then the telltale clicks of deadbolts being undone. Lots of tough guys scoff at deadbolts in public, but Frank doesn’t know a single guy without a few on his own door. The door opens, and Frank slips through, and then Ray is _there_ , big and tugging Frank into his arms while the door clicks shut behind them.

Ray is warm and he smells kind of like coconut. Frank presses his face into Ray’s chest and breathes.

They end up in the bedroom after that. Frank always has the best intentions, _romantic_ intentions. Ray deserves romance; he’s awful tender-hearted for a muscle guy, and it makes Frank want to treat him like a girlfriend. But they only get these snatches of time together, and neither of them wants to miss out on this. Skin on skin, hot breath, and the things Ray can do with his tongue make Frank pray harder than he has in years.

He’d be lying if he said that the danger doesn’t make it hotter. Nobody fucks with the Family and gets away with it, and when he’s fucking Ray it’s like giving it to the Boss straight up the ass. He’s muscle for the wrong side, a bodyguard for some upstart pissant with a few gold teeth who thinks he can horn in on the Family’s business. Trouble is, this upstart has more than one good tough guy like Ray, and he’s made more of a dent than the Boss likes to admit. They’re in a standstill for now, eyeing each other up from opposite sides of the street, but shit’s going to go down for real eventually. And when it does go down, the last place any self-respecting made man ought to be is in bed with the enemy.

Yet here he is, riding Ray’s thigh while Ray runs his big hands down Frank’s thighs and then up again to cup his hips. Ray makes Frank feel like a little guy in bed, and he fucking _likes_ it. If anyone here is a girlfriend, Frank knows it’s him, but it’s hard to get worked up about it when it feels so goddamn good. Ray kisses like he’s telling you a secret, engraving it on your lips and pushing it deep into your mouth so you never forget. He’s a romantic fucking kisser; Frank hasn’t gotten off so hard on making out since he was in junior high, and even then he was trying to cop a feel of Carla Balistrieri’s tits over the Pepto Bismol monstrosity she called a Cotillion dress.

“Fuck, baby.” Frank’s dick is hard as a fucking Glock. He grinds down hard on Ray’s thigh and digs his blunt nails into the hot skin of Ray’s shoulder. “I can’t do this, I need some fucking action.”

Ray laughs, and he doesn’t laugh like muscle either and Frank finds that so endlessly sexy that he seriously questions his junk sometimes. “This isn’t enough action for you?”

He tugs Frank down _hard_ against his thigh, to prove the point or to remind Frank that he can, either way it makes Frank groan. “Jesus fuck, suck me or _something_ , you’re driving me crazy.”

The only conclusion he can reach is that Ray loves to drive him crazy, because he just laughs again. He makes Frank stay in place, ride and moan until he’s rubbed himself stupid against the thick muscle of Ray’s thigh. Only when he’s sputtering out curses that he hasn’t used since he got shot by one of Ray’s brothers while out on a delivery, only then does Ray roll them over and slide down Frank’s belly. Ray has excellent hair for holding onto, and he doesn’t bitch when you pull. Frank takes advantage of that fact and yanks to his heart’s content, working his hips up against Ray’s face just as aggressively as he was fucking his thigh before. Ray just takes it; _like a bitch_ , Frank’s mind wants to fill in, but Ray’s not a bitch. He’s strong and gorgeous and feels so fucking right that sometimes it’s hard to remember how wrong they really are.

Coming is a relief, but Frank doesn’t really feel relaxed until after he strokes Ray off. The guy’s a fucking anaconda, and Frank’s hand gets kind of sore wrapped around his length, but the splash of come over his wrist and hip is a gross kind of satisfying. Frank groans and melts, pressing his forehead against Ray’s shoulder.

“Someday,” Ray says, a little breathless. “Someday, we’re actually gonna have the talking part before the fucking part.”

“Overrated.” Frank smiles and presses a kiss to Ray’s bicep. On his other arm he has a dark tattoo, a mark of loyalty to his gang. This one is bare, and in the post-coital glow, Frank allows himself to imagine that this arm is _his_. He wonders vaguely if Ray wishes there were an unmarked part of Frank that he could lay claim to; he doesn’t think so. Ray isn’t a possessive bastard like Frank is.

Ray grunts and rolls towards him, opening his arms so Frank can fit in right against his chest. “You going to sneak out in the middle of the night?”

“No plans to.” Frank yawns and snuggles in against Ray’s chest. “But you never know when duty calls.”

“Wake me up when you go.” Frank can feel the rumble of Ray’s words going through him, even though he’s barely whispering. “Barely see you as it is.”

Frank doesn’t answer, and Ray doesn’t say any more. It would be hard, if Frank was who he is and Ray was a civilian, but they could make it work. But this…Frank doesn’t think of himself as an overly negative person. Some of the guys get seriously maudlin when they’re drunk, whine about their twisted psyches and the blood on their hands that never washes off. Frank has always been a fighter, a punch first and ask questions never kind of guy. He isn’t tortured by who he is or what he does. But he can’t see this ending in anything but a rain of bullets. Maybe just one at a time, execution style—probably not. When you fuck up as much as he and Ray have, you don’t get the dignity of a clean execution. You paint the fucking walls.

He still thinks Ray is worth it.


End file.
